


Artist's Dream

by skywalkersamidala



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, One Shot, bc they didn't want you to know he's just as jacked as lorenzo and giuliano, blatant medici propaganda!, francesco deserves shirtless scenes too it's equality, i'm just trying to level the playing field with this fic here, the show never let francesco take his shirt off even once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: Francesco is bribed into posing for a shirtless painting and Sandro, Lorenzo, and Giuliano are stunned by what they see.
Relationships: Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Francesco de' Pazzi
Comments: 27
Kudos: 122





	Artist's Dream

**Author's Note:**

> What a chain of inspiration this fic had oh man! There was a gifset that inspired a mini tag ficlet that inspired fanart that inspired this full fic, you can witness the entire chain here in all its glory: https://kael-san.tumblr.com/post/612795772163047424/im-sorry-but-i-could-not-ignore-this-tags (and I highly recommend you do check it out because the gifs of shirtless Matteo Martari + fanart of the Medici characters will be immensely helpful visual aides for your enjoyment of this fic)
> 
> I think I was sort of picturing these as youthful pre-2x01 shenanigans but it doesn't really matter that much lmao enjoy!

“Ugh,” Giuliano said as he caught sight of Francesco Pazzi strolling across the crowded piazza they were walking through on their way to deliver Sandro’s latest painting to his client. “And just like that, my day is ruined.”

Sandro didn’t seem to be listening to him, too busy following Francesco with his eyes and sighing deeply. “Dear God, not you too,” Giuliano said in disgust.

“What?” Sandro said, still watching Francesco’s retreating back.

“Lorenzo pining after him is bad enough, but I thought _you_ had more sense.”

Sandro finally deigned to look at Giuliano. Probably because Francesco was no longer in sight. “No, no, I’m only pining after his face.”

“And that’s better because…?”

“Pining in an artistic sense,” Sandro explained. “Have you ever seen such a fascinating profile? It’s like Roman portraiture brought to life. He’s an artist’s dream.”

“If you say so,” said Giuliano, who considered himself something of a connoisseur of beauty but could not for the life of him understand why Sandro (and Lorenzo) seemed to find so much of it in Francesco. In Giuliano’s opinion, the only thing fascinating about Francesco’s face was how strongly it made you desire to punch it.

“I must paint it,” Sandro declared. “Do you think he’d agree to sit for me?”

“Never in a thousand years,” Giuliano said, which made Sandro’s face fall so much that he actually found himself thinking of ways to motivate Francesco into agreeing to sit for him. It didn’t take long. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Sandro said hopefully.

“Unless you bribed him.”

“With what?”

“With—and it’s a mark of how strong our friendship is that I’m willing to let you do this—with Lorenzo,” Giuliano said, shuddering. He would strongly prefer to keep Lorenzo as far away from Francesco as possible because the inevitable affair brewing between them was going to be his worst nightmare when it finally happened, but for Sandro’s sake…

Sandro looked perplexed. “With Lorenzo? He hates Lorenzo.”

“So he claims. But if he really does hate him, why does he seek out his attention so much? The bastard’s obsessed with him.” Giuliano had been carefully observing for months now and was certain his conclusion was correct. “While Lorenzo pines with longing looks and wistful sighs and bad poetry, Francesco pines with insults and attempts to antagonize him.”

“So…you’re saying I should get him to sit for me by promising that Lorenzo will be there?” Sandro said.

“Oh no,” Giuliano said. “You should get him to sit for you by casually slipping in the fact that Lorenzo will be there, then offering him some other kind of bribe—probably monetary—that he can accept as a pretext. He would never admit to liking Lorenzo, so you have to trick him into thinking you don’t understand his true motivations for wanting to agree.”

“All right,” Sandro said, brow furrowed. Giuliano knew he wasn’t used to this kind of subterfuge. “I think I can manage that. But I don’t have any money to bribe him with.”

“I’m sure Lorenzo will be more than happy to contribute under the circumstances.”

“Can I at least bribe Lorenzo directly with Francesco, or do I have to trick him too?”

“No, you can be direct with him. He has no pride left.”

* * *

Francesco wasn’t sure why the Medici’s little painter friend had cornered him on his way to the Pazzi bank. They had never spoken before; truth be told, Francesco didn’t even know his name. But the little painter friend seemed to know _him_ very well, somehow.

“I was hoping you’d let me paint you,” he was saying, as if they were the oldest of friends who asked each other for favors all the time.

“No,” Francesco said without hesitation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to—”

“Wait, please,” said the painter, trying to block Francesco’s path despite the fact that he was half Francesco’s size and Francesco could easily mow him down if he so chose. But he didn’t so choose, and instead he stopped in his tracks and sighed impatiently.

“Surely there’s no shortage of models amongst the Medici and all their acquaintances,” Francesco said. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know why you want to paint me or why you think I’d agree to—”

“Lorenzo will be there,” the painter blurted out, then winced a little.

Francesco paused his complaints, hating how the words made his stomach do a backflip. “Lorenzo?” he repeated before he could stop himself. Then he quickly arranged his expression into one of careful neutrality. “And why should I care about that?”

“You shouldn’t—I mean, there’s no reason—I mean, of course you wouldn’t care that he’ll be there,” the painter stammered. “I was only saying it because I…wanted you to get a full idea of the project before you made a decision about whether to participate or not. I was thinking of painting…um…a scene from Homer, and I’ve already got Lorenzo to be Achilles, so I just need a second model for…uh…Hector.”

“Really,” Francesco said skeptically. “What’s the scene?”

“It’s the scene where…they…sit and talk to each other?”

Francesco narrowed his eyes. Achilles and Hector were enemies, weren’t they? Why would they sit and talk to each other? This didn’t seem right, but he didn’t actually know enough about Homer to question it. He’d never done his tutor’s assigned readings and had been grateful when Jacopo finally barked at the man that thousand-year-old literature was a waste of time and Francesco’s studies should only include practical topics in the future.

“And of course you’d be financially compensated for your time,” the painter continued. “Quite generously.”

Francesco weighed his options. On the one hand, this would be days and maybe weeks or even months of his time wasted sitting around being painted, and it would be doing a favor for the Medici since they were this little painter’s patrons, and therefore if Jacopo ever got wind of it Francesco would be in deep trouble, and he would probably have to spend time with Giuliano because he and this painter were joined at the hip, and Francesco really didn’t care to be painted or to have people someday see a painting of him posing as some mythological figure.

On the other hand, Lorenzo.

“Fine,” he said. “Since you’ll pay me for my time, I _suppose_ I’ll participate. But it had better not take too long.”

The painter beamed at him. “It won’t!”

* * *

Giuliano had been sure a good time was in store for him this afternoon, and so far he hadn’t been disappointed. Francesco was a terrible model. “No, don’t sit so stiffly,” Sandro scolded. “Shoulders down. Sit up straight.”

“Do you want me to not sit stiffly or to sit up straight? Pick one,” Francesco said irritably.

“Both. Turn your head to the left. Farther. Farther. Stop, not that far!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

Meanwhile, Lorenzo was standing next to Giuliano as an observer and gazing dreamily at Francesco and smiling at everything he said like it was the cleverest thing he’d ever heard. Giuliano couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be sick.

“Maybe it would help if he took his shirt off,” Lorenzo suggested innocently, and Giuliano had to physically squint to keep from rolling his eyes.

A flush was rising in Francesco’s cheeks. “Why in God’s name would that help anything?”

“No, no, Lorenzo’s right,” Sandro said. Giuliano shook his head; why was Sandro encouraging this? “It’ll help since the characters aren’t wearing shirts in the scene.”

“They’re not wearing shirts?” Francesco said. “Two enemies are sitting and talking without wearing shirts?”

“Yes, don’t you remember that scene in the _Iliad?”_ Lorenzo said with such conviction that even Giuliano almost believed him for a second. “Where Achilles and Hector are both washing their clothes in the river Scamander? And they have a moment of shared humanity where they forget their enmity and just have a conversation?”

“Why are they washing their own clothes? They’re famous warriors, wouldn’t they have slaves to do that?”

Lorenzo shrugged. “That’s just how the scene goes.”

Giuliano had previously thought that _his_ knowledge of classical mythology was bad, and the fact that Francesco actually seemed to believe all of this made him feel significantly better about himself.

“So, shirt off, please,” Sandro instructed.

Francesco grumbled a little but started unlacing his outer tunic. “Why isn’t Lorenzo sitting too?” he said. “You said we’re both in the painting.”

“And you both will be. But I’ve sketched Lorenzo a thousand times before, so I wanted a day to practice just with you. Tomorrow the real work will begin.”

“Then why is Lorenzo even here if he’s not needed? Giuliano too?” Francesco folded his tunic up neatly and set it on the floor atop his cloak, then started untucking his undershirt from his pants.

“They like to watch the process,” Sandro said.

“Well, it’s distracting,” Francesco said as he pulled his undershirt off over his head.

Whatever response any of the other three might have made was lost as they all gasped in unison. Now that he was no longer drowning in layers of cloaks and tunics, they could see that Francesco, previously assumed to be a rather small man, was _built._ Giuliano gaped at his stomach muscles, broad chest, and muscular arms; all the while an alarming string of flashbacks was running through his mind, reminding him of all the times he’d insulted Francesco thinking he was a weak, skinny little thing who would never be able to take him if a fight broke out, when apparently all this time Francesco could’ve broken him in half if he’d wanted to.

Sandro had accidentally snapped the sketching charcoal he was holding, and Lorenzo swooned so hard that Giuliano had to catch him to keep him from collapsing altogether. “What?” Francesco said as Giuliano ushered Lorenzo to sit down on Sandro’s stool. “Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Statue,” Lorenzo said faintly. “He looks like a Greek statue.” Giuliano considered going to fetch him a glass of wine to restore his strength.

“This is so much better than I could have ever dreamed,” Sandro murmured, seizing a fresh piece of charcoal and starting to sketch frantically. “May I hire you for my next several paintings once this one’s done?”

Francesco looked baffled and a little self-conscious. “Uh…”

Giuliano was entertained for ten more minutes watching Lorenzo staring nearly unblinkingly at Francesco’s torso and Francesco staring anywhere but at Lorenzo, but at last he acknowledged to himself that he’d wasted enough time here today. “Well, this has been fun, but I do have other things to do, so I’ll leave our artist to it,” he said, clapping Sandro on the back. “Coming, Lorenzo?”

“No, I want to watch the sketches come together,” said Lorenzo, who was not looking anywhere in the vicinity of the sketches.

So, finally allowing himself an eyeroll, Giuliano left alone.

* * *

“That’s not _really_ Francesco Pazzi,” Bianca objected the next morning, studying the finished sketches Sandro was showing her and Giuliano. “He’s much smaller than that.”

“That’s what we all thought too, but then he took his shirt off,” Giuliano said.

“Yes, this is definitely a very accurate likeness,” Lorenzo assured her.

“And Lorenzo should know,” Sandro said. “Seeing as when I left at the end of the day yesterday, he stayed behind for a _much_ closer look. All night long.”

Giuliano and Bianca snickered. “That’s _not_ true,” Lorenzo protested, bright red, “I was only staying to—to help tidy up some more.”

“Then explain to me why my studio was ten times messier this morning than it was when I left last night? I don’t even want to know how that blue paint got everywhere. You owe me for that, by the way, that color’s expensive.”


End file.
